The judge was answering these apparently most unnecessary questions without a quiver or trace of annoyance. Billy made another cast.
"Did you ride your gray horse?"
"No, the black."
"I hope you wore a coat." The gravity of Billy's tone could not have been bettered.
"An overcoat?" smiled Judge Driver. "Naturally."
"That's good, that's good. I like to see you looking after your health thisaway. You'd be a valuable citizen to lose, Judge. I dunno what we'd do without you. I don't indeed."
What had gone before had been bad enough in all conscience. But this was even worse. Yet the judge took no offense. He merely smiled blandly upon Billy Wingo and proffered the latter gentleman his cigar case. Billy declined with thanks. Whereupon the judge drew a long and very black cigar from the case and bit off the end.
"It's funny I didn't meet you in Hillsville," mused Billy, turning his head as if to look at the stove but in reality looking at a mirror hanging on the wall beside the stove that showed on its face an excellent reflection of Judge Driver's features.
As he expected, the judge gave him a quick sharp glance, but what he had not expected was the demoniac expression of hatred that flashed across the judge's face as summer lightning flashes across the face of a dark cloud.
Billy Wingo turned a slow head. His eyes met those of the judge squarely. Gone was the expression of hatred. In its place was one of courteous regret,—regret that he had been so unfortunate as to miss his friend Sheriff Wingo in Hillsville.